Desolate The Complete Trilogy

12



Dr. Gordon sat in front of the warden’s desk, nervously puffing on his cigarette. The warden entered the office and sat down. He took his glasses off and rubbed his face.

“How bad is it? No bullshit.” He looked exhausted.

“I honestly can’t say,” said Gordon. “I’ve never seen anything this bad. We lost twelve more this morning and a few in the infirmary probably won’t last through the rest of the day. Nothing I’ve tried has worked.”

“And you don’t have any idea what it is yet?”

Gordon snuffed out his smoke and shook his head. “The symptoms don’t relate to any infection I’m aware of. Cholera, Smallpox, Ebola, even the plague. Matt, this is serious. I need help. Two of my trustees are sick and the quarantine just isn’t working.”

“We still can’t get through to the mainland. My communications man says there was one hell of a storm at the relay station in Santa Cruz. That would explain the lousy weather we’ve been having.”

“What about the next supply ship?” asked the doctor.

“It’s not due for over a month.”

“I don’t even know if there’ll be anybody left by then. Every man that’s shown symptoms so far has died. Every one.”

“Do what you can for now,” said the warden. “We’ll keep trying the radio and I’m sure we’re bound to get through any minute now. If there’s anything else I can do in the meantime just let me know.”

The doctor sighed and got to his feet. “What I need is a proper hospital and staff to help.”

“Close the door on your way out, please.”

Gordon left the room and the warden opened his bottom desk drawer. He took out the satellite phone and absently ran his finger over the keys. The bit about the storm in Santa Cruz wasn’t a lie, just a fortunate coincidence. Nobody in the camp knew about the satellite phone besides him. All he had to do was press a few buttons and he could be connected to Washington in seconds.

He put the phone back in the drawer and locked it. Up until the discovery in the mine, things had been going extremely well. His contacts in Buenos Aires were buying all the platinum he could send them and still asked for more. After months of meticulous planning he had it all worked out. The supply ship captains gladly accepted their bribes, his guards all got their piece, and the camp supplied a bountiful supply of slave labor. Best of all, the warden’s accounts in the Caymans continued to grow and his retirement was so close he could almost taste it. All because of that beautiful rock priced at eighteen hundred dollars an ounce.

He could easily alert the press and take full credit for the space craft discovery, however it would raise far too many questions. He could also make a call for help and get the sick men airlifted out. Again, too many questions.

Eventually, the warden decided to wait it out and hope for the best. Despite the doctor’s grim assessment, he felt optimistic the quarantine would eventually hold and work in the mine would continue. He had come too far to consider otherwise.

When the platinum vein went dry he would blow the tunnel and collapse the mine, burying the space craft for good. A flying saucer might be one of the most important discoveries in history, but in the end, Warden Scott decided his own financial independence was a higher priority.